you lie there
beautifully
your head in an oven.
your death,
an image so majestic,
more blissful than any other
image of your creating.
your head in an oven,
and your beauty on the floor
amongst wet towels
wet dreams
wet disappointments
and parquet floors
and rugs smudged with
orange juice
in a happy suburban neighbourhood.
your most precious gift,
your beauty,
and I'd lie there
my head
in the oven
only if
that beauty could be mine.
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